You Starve So Beautifully

I am hungry. It is this deep relentless abyss within me. I crave. I hurt. For blood in her metallic glory, for fear in her horrific beauty. Yet, I cannot satisfy this compelling desire.

My hunger is a real thing, a living, breathing entity that consumes me. I ignore her and roll out of bed. I stand before my mirror, naked. My breasts flop down onto my belly, my bush, a coily and wild thing. I turn to my side. My belly.

My hunger stares at me, her slow assessing gaze looking me over. I run my hand over my belly and push it in towards myself. I wonder what it would look like if it were flatter. How I would look if it were flatter.

“It's flatter than it was yesterday,” my hunger murmurs. “You're making progress.”

I turn to her. “You think?”

Whether it is true or not, I don't care much. It's flatter. Maybe I'll wear the girdle today so it doesn't fold as much.

“It's no matter, my darling,” my hunger continues. “You starve so beautifully.”

I continue to stare at my reflection in the mirror. I am so hungry.